


kewan kawa

by js71



Series: Assorted Star Wars Splashes (w/Dai Bendu) [10]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Dai Bendu, Gen, dont effing try me, i will fight you for my kneecaps rose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:48:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27286699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/js71/pseuds/js71
Summary: kewan kawa: (Dai Bendu) lovely song; lullabyAhsoka sings, Obi-Wan sobs, and the children of the Force walk alone.
Series: Assorted Star Wars Splashes (w/Dai Bendu) [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1977589
Comments: 8
Kudos: 81





	kewan kawa

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Reassurance {enoji brei ormah}](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26310430) by [loosingletters](https://archiveofourown.org/users/loosingletters/pseuds/loosingletters). 



“Paiben juvetho seka ibli deoj forpai,”

The words carried softly through the still air, the source a young togruta girl, who held a human baby in her arms, swaying back and forth, turning in a slow circle around the farmstead’s living room. The desert outside was quiet and dark, the sobs of the child long-quiet. The sands were cold, the warmth of day leached away but the cold night, the silver travelled only but smugglers and criminals, the rest unwilling to dare a journey across the wastes of fine grains, where Tuskens waited and Jawa’s puttered around in their machines, krayt dragons snoring and sarlaccs rumbling, constantly hungry.

“Enoji brei ormah,” she whispered hoarsely, the sound coming from the inside, the notes ringing out gently through the Force, “Paiwiden juvetho seka ibli deoj forpai,”

Ahsoka closed her eyes, cradling Luke to her chest, and did her best not to cry, swallowing hard, and beginning the song again, calling for their family to return, Luke long-asleep to the ancient lullaby’s tone, but Ahsoka was far too tired and sad to follow suit. She’d been sleeping enough anyway, and was sick of it, working through every song she could recall hearing in her childhood, lullabies and otherwise, slowing the rhythm of the faster ones to make them pass as lullabies “Paiwiden juvetho seka ibli deoj forpai.”

Hot tears trailed down her cheeks, and Ahsoka let out a shuttering breath, tucking her chin over the crown of Luke’s head, the words fading away into soft, barely audible murmurs, the hum of each one barely vibrating within the Force.

She found herself sitting down in the middle of the room, legs crossing each other, automatically reverting back to the memories of her childhood, of the crèche and learning to feel the push and the pull of the Force. Luke would never have that. Leia, taken far away and given to jaieh Cere to care for, to protect, would never have that. The - nevi paqorji. They would never have that either. They would be hunted. Would have no one to guide them to understand the sensations around them, to whisper to them that they were not weird, or strange, or awful, or cursed, but beautiful, and loved, and warm, and safe, and home, and 

“Ibli paqor,” she sang, throat tight and painfully so, her eyes shut and leaking tears, the droplets tracing paths down her cheeks, crossing over white wings smirked on her skin and past her slowly moving lips, gathering on her chin, and growing heavy, falling onto Luke’s hair, the baby unable to be disturbed, one fist tangled in Ahsoka’s loose tunics, his eyes shut, presence warm. “Koln Anohrah, kan nev xari, ru koln Anohrah.”

 _Little children, come home,_ she sang, no, she _begged_ , letting Luke’s light warm her own battered self, _run from the dark, and come home._

Ahsoka allowed herself to cry, hoarsely whispering the lyrics of the lullaby to herself, to Luke, and tried not to hurt too much, and failed in doing just that.

* * *

“Nevi paqor,” Obi-Wan whispered, collapsing to his knees in the crèche, one hand reaching out to brush loose hair from a boy’s face. No older than eleven, perhaps twelve at the most. He felt emotion well up, overflowing like a spring, and Obi-Wan bowed his head, throat closing tightly around his breath. “Heleo, ibli kyber, heleo.”

The boy gave no reply, his eyes blank and empty, orbs reflecting Obi-Wan’s face back at him, but the spirit the corpse had once been guided by was gone, the skin cold and the warmth inside taken from them. Obi-Wan choked on the air, tears trailing down the sides of his face, gathering at his chin, unable to fall any further.

“Heleo, ibli kyber,” he repeated again, and then again, and again until he couldn’t remember how long he’d been there, holding an empty hand and begging for the boy to forgive him, for his younger brother to forgive him. He ran a finger across the boy’s brow, tucking dark hair behind his ears, and slid his thumbs over his eyelids, closing them, shame filling him at the urge to stop the accusing, dead gaze.

Beside the boy, fallen on her side, was a rodian girl, one arm falling across her stomach, the other pillowing her head, eyes half-mast, and Obi-Wan slid those shut too, begging for forgiveness for failing them, pleading with the Force to show mercy, the Force wailing with grief in answer, pained and throbbing with imkaian.

Obi-Wan had seen the recordings, as many as he could. He’d watched Cere tap at the screen, releasing them to the public, all the way up to the end of the massacre, cutting only their entry out of them. Other than that, she’d released everything that would help sow doubt in the Empire. The saved recordings of whatever might help tell the galaxy that they had not been heartless, as so many thought. They had been sentient, they had been a family, they had been a culture, they had been a people.

They had been.

They still were. Few. Scattered. Hurting. Cracked, but not broken or shattered.

“Jaieh,” Ahsoka whispered from the hallway, very pointedly not looking inside the crèche, where Initiates had fallen to protect the Younglings and Foundlings, the old protecting the young as best they could, for as long as they could, hoping for a rescue, and never getting one. “Naa'ah,”

Time to go, he knew. Obi-Wan rose, knees aching, shoulders heavy. He gathered his cloak around himself and wondered if the children, if his family, would be given proper burials, ones in accordance with their traditions.

He doubted it. More likely, they would be defiled or frozen and put on display, mummified and abused, thrown in mass graves or incinerators, stripped of clothing and anything of value at best, at worse thrown in with no concern, no names held by the records, their dreams gone, their memory lost to all but a scant few, a few who were already lost.

* * *

Tama rakadaji'un.

The children of the Force were alone.

They walked the stars, they walked the earth, they walked the water, thin threads of glittering gold and shimmering silver and burning bronze linking them together, so few left, so few warm, so many snapped and shattered and rusted over, corrupted by the dark and swayed by the power and promise of the shadows, of revenge of justice of a new family, promises that never came through.

 _Do this, and you will feel better,_ Bogan whispered in their minds, fingers trailing over shoulders and around ears and across wrists, _you will earn what is yours, you will get back what you have lost._

But there was always another step, another corner, another door, every single one that was walked through locking behind them, making it harder and harder to turn around, the guilt clawing at them when they tried.

They locked themselves out, they lifted barriers and tried to forget the teachings of their families, of their home, of their culture. They hummed songs from their lives and tried not to be found, taking job after job, changing names and stories and telling lies.

Bendu watched, silent as always, as unhelpful as ever. Bendu said nothing, stayed away, only watched, as Bogan cackled and played with the children, spun them in circles, tripped them and lied, and Bendu said nothing, as Ashla wept and tried to wipe the tears and promise things that Ashla could not know were true, but Ashla tried all the same.

 _I am him,_ they would say, while their essence sang that _I am me,_ and they would say _my family died,_ and their essence wept that _it was true,_ and they would say _I don’t miss it,_ and their essence sang _I want my home._

 _I know,_ Ashla cried, wrapping arms around them at night, wrapping shields around them at day, trying to remind them of Light and sobbing when it hurt, Ashla prodded them to those who were safe, who were little sparks, even if they weren’t flares, _I am sorry, I am sorry._

The children of the Force wanted safety and family. They wanted to turn back time, walk back down their paths, look up to their jaieh and laugh with their raheniel, and wanted to be home again, they wanted to go home.

They picked one, they hurt, they did nothing, they endured, they whispered and carved words into the walls, messages for each other, knowing how helpless it was, how few they were, but carving it, all the same, saying that they’d endured and that others could endure, that the Light was alive in all of them, that nothing was eternal but the Force, that Dark would fall and Light would rise, they tried to spread their Light, they tried and they stumbled, tendrils of shadow around ankles and wrists, tears burning hot in their eyes and throat.

The children of the Force were alone.

Tama rakadaji'un.

**Author's Note:**

> [Lullaby Origin](https://www.archiveofourown.org/works/26310430)
> 
> [Tumblr](https://js71.tumblr.com/post/624273937698865152/submit-requests)!
> 
>  **Nevi paqorji:** the (future) children
> 
>  **Heleo:** sorry
> 
>  **Ibli kyber:** term of enderment; children
> 
>  **Imkaian:** senseless murder
> 
>  **Naa'ah:** time to go
> 
> Turns out I _can_ make canon _so much worse_.


End file.
